


falling to stand

by Directionless_Foray



Series: quiet healing [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Avoidance, Character Study, M/M, but it's sort of there, but not a lot, just another shameless case of me using fic and seb to work through my own issues :)))))), not very ship-y, some other drivers sort of make appearances, there's a loose thread of a plot, this is pretty plotless not gonna lie, this is probably the most aimless and worst thing I have ever written and i love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23012314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Directionless_Foray/pseuds/Directionless_Foray
Summary: Sebastian disappears.Then he tries to figure out why.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Series: quiet healing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671961
Comments: 32
Kudos: 113





	falling to stand

**Author's Note:**

> FULL DISCLOSURE: I have no lie written most of this in a bit of a daze and the weirdest mood ever so...
> 
> I have also shamelessly once again used Seb as a poorly disguised (if at all disguised) vehicle to work through my own issues :)))))
> 
> There is ?? Kind ?? of ?? No ?? Plot?? 
> 
> Also it's tagged as Seb/Charles but it's not like... Super ship-y. (Sorry.) 
> 
> But yes. I suppose it could definitely be read that way. 
> 
> This is really very aimless and probably terrible and weirdly paced but I want to just be rid of it and hey, if you like it, thanks :) it really did come from a very confusing but very genuine place :)

Seb flies straight back to Switzerland right after he finishes the last of his contractual duties in Abu Dhabi.

He smiles, close-lipped and genial as he answers questions about Christmas plans and his hopes for the next year.

The questions never change and something about it makes his resolve harden. 

There's absolutely nothing in his answers that would suggest that anything is awry.

Britta hugs him extra tight when he says good-bye.

He makes small talk with the taxi driver to the airport and acquiesces to a selfie after he counts out the cash for the trip.

He smiles thinly as the camera shutter clicks. He knows that it will probably be the last official photo of him for a while.

Seb doesn't tell anyone this, of course.

And-

And the perks of living a notoriously private life are that-

Are that, well.

No one suspects a thing.

No one suspects a thing until Ferrari releases the official statement in the few days in between Christmas and New Years Eve. 

_Sebastian Vettel has made the decision to part with the Scuderia Ferrari team. We wish him all the best with his future endeavours and he will always remain a member of the Ferrari family. Grazie Mille, Seb! _

By the time the shit hits the proverbial fan, Seb is tucked away from prying eyes and he can watch it all unfold from a safe distance.

_For once_, he thinks with a wry smile,_ the questions are **different.**_

The irony is that he's not there to field them now.

-

Funnily enough Charles is the first one to call him.

He's silent on the other end of the line.

Seb waits patiently. He can feel the simmering rage even across an ocean and through the crackly speakers of his iPhone.

He looks out the window while he waits for Charles to decide what to say.

To decide what he's most outraged about. 

Seb squints, _he should mow the lawn sometime soon_.

Maybe later today.

Or-

Or, maybe not.

He's got the time now.

"How long have you known?" Charles eventually snarls.

Seb sighs, "I can't really say-"

"How long has _everyone else_ known," Charles changes tactic.

"Since September, maybe a little earlier," Seb admits.

It had been a _bitch_ of a thing to negotiate but they got there in the end.

He had been unbudging on the fact that he didn't want it announced until the season was well and truly over.

Didn't want to be there for the fallout.  
  


That was non-negotiable.

There's a beat of silence.

Then another one.

Seb takes the opportunity to start mentally planning the barebones blueprint of a vegetable patch.

He's thinking of a trellis of cherry tomatoes and some green beans. 

"_Fuck you_," Charles says with such succinct hatred before abruptly hanging up.

Seb looks at the blinking numbers on his phone and then moves to start making his toast for breakfast.

He also decides to plant some daffodils in the garden as he makes his tea.

-

Kimi calls him four days later.

It's entirely possible that Kimi didn't even hear the announcement when it first came out.

Kimi doesn't ask Seb _if he's sure about this_.

For which Seb is infinitely grateful.

Plus, it's been a few days now.

All the promotional material has already been released. Rose-tinted compilation videos uploaded. Statements circulated through all of the major media and social media platforms.

It's probably a bit late to change his mind anyway.

Kimi doesn't tell Seb if he thinks Seb made the right or wrong decision.

He just tells Seb that he's coming over for dinner next week.

Tells Seb he should learn how to cook, now that he has all this free time and everything.

Seb doesn't say that that's not why he's doing what he's doing. Somehow he’s confident that Kimi already knows this.

They talk about Kimi's kids and Seb's plans to renovate the second floor of his house.

Kimi suggests he consult a professional before redoing the garden. Before he even thinks about touching a shovel or hammer really. 

Seb hums noncommittally and ignores the suggestion.

They don't talk about racing.

About big decisions that could turn into disasters.

Seb goes to turn off all the lights in his big empty house before he goes to bed. The sky outside is still pink-hued but he falls asleep almost immediately.

He takes it as a small victory.

If his conscience is at peace with his decision then maybe he can be too.

-

The postcard from Daniel arrives a few weeks later.

_What the fuck, man, _is scrawled on the back in sharpie.

There's a lopsided smiley face drawn in the corner though. 

Seb smiles ruefully and sticks it to his fridge after he finishes his mug of tea.

-

Lewis sends him a long rambling series of voicemail messages.

Seb squints and does the time-difference math and surmises that Lewis deliberately called him when he was asleep.

Almost definitely waited until an unholy morning hour to ensure it was the case.

It brings a fond smile to his face. He presses the button to listen to them while he wipes down the dining room table.

The messages are nice.

Lewis waxes poetic about _friendships rooted in mutual respect _and_ fierce competitors _and_ being cut from the same cloth. _

He wishes Seb luck with _future endeavours_ and even extends an offer to _have dinner or lunch or whatever the next time you're in town_.

It's all very considerate and detached politeness swathed in warm professionalism, Seb still appreciates it though.

Lewis certainly wasn't obligated to reach out.

He _did_ though.

It's all very textbook _cordiality_ except for-

Except for the very end of the last message.

Lewis pauses for a second too long and they're _racers_ so Seb is intimately familiar-

-Is_ fluent _in the language of micro-seconds.

_"I'm really going to miss you, man,"_ Lewis says softly.  
  


Seb believes him.

-

Christian sends flowers wrapped in pale blue tissue paper and tied in red ribbon with a little note that reads, _you're __insane__. we'll miss you all the same. C_

Seb realises with a start that he doesn't know if he owns a vase.

He spends an afternoon clearing out the attic until he finds one.

He transfers the flowers, _long-stemmed lilies and multi-coloured tulips, indispersed with strands of sweet pea_, into the freshly cleaned vase.

There's a little care card enclosed with the layers of tissue paper and a paper packet of plant food sticky-taped to the back.

Seb reads through the instructions carefully. Then reads them again just to make sure. 

-

He doesn't really notice it.

Not until it's Valentines day.

Seb is stood at the self-serve checkout of his local supermarket and spies some overpriced supermarket roses wrapped in cheap cellophane and he realises-

_Oh._

Winter testing starts soon.

Up until then, there was no real negligible change in his life.

Seb stares at the flowers and tries to process the realisation that-

_Oh yeah_.

He's not going back to the only life he knows.

He doesn't know how he feels about that. The numbness snuffing out any other emotional response. 

The _numbness,_ the absence of all other emotions, is somehow the most unnerving part of it all. 

He stares at the roses dumbly until a woman in a staff uniform politely taps him on the shoulder and asks if he needs some help with the self-serve machines.

Seb shakes himself and tries to smile politely as he gathers his groceries.

At the last second he turns and drops a few coins in the collection tin for the local charity.

-

The dilemma is-

The dilemma is that he can't quite decide if he should keep watching races.

If he can bear to watch.

(If he can bear to _not_ watch)

He just can't decide.

Whether he should keep one foot in that world and the other out of it.

Whether he should flirt with the outskirts of that world. 

Whether he does himself more harm one way or other. 

Whether he should watch the it all unfold on the television like everyone else.

Should make _predictions_ instead of **_decisions_**.

Every time he tries to sit down and make a proper choice. To do the grown-up thing and grapple with these feelings, to _address_ them-

-To simply acknowledge them.

He just puts it off.

There are just some things he's not ready to confront yet.

Kimi's right, he has free time now.

More free-time that he knows what to do with, if he's being honest.

He can afford to delay important decisions.

To let the chips fall as they may and deal with the consequences.

-

In a way-

In a way, he solves the problem.

He solves the problem in a roundabout way by getting _offensively_ _drunk_ the night before qualifying in Melbourne.

The resulting hangover is a heinous monster of a consequence though.

-

One of his oldest high school friends takes pity on him.

He suggests they have a party and invite some friends over to watch the race.

"Not a huge party," he quickly reassures, "but," he shrugs, "but big enough that you can decide to be distracted if you want."

Seb agrees easily enough.

It's nice.

They drink cold beer and the race plays in the background like the ominous soundtrack to his life whilst Seb floats in and out of rooms.

There's only a handful of moments when he has to physically leave the room, to step out into the garden, to breathe in and out of his nose slowly until his hands stop shaking.

When he returns everyone is pointedly not looking at him.

Seb can feel a headache coming on.

Maybe he should have stayed outside.

If everyone else is at a loss for words, his brother has no such qualms. He snorts, "did you want some smelling salts too?" he asks.

Seb flips him off and settles back on the couch as the conversation slowly picks back up.

His hands don't shake again.

It's strange watching a race and knowing there's nothing he could have done to change it.

Strange but not entirely unpleasant.

He falls asleep immediately that night. A deep and dreamless sleep.

Then and again, that could be the alcohol as much as it is the emotional turmoil.

-

Pierre handwrites him a very nice letter and Seb keeps it in the drawer of his desk in the study.

He writes back and wishes Pierre luck with the season and deliberately doesn't answer the questions about if Seb thinks he'll come back soon.  
  


If he'll come to watch a race.

He posts his letter the next time he heads into town to top up his pantry.

Then he goes back home and tries to make banana bread.

-

He gets it right on the second try.

-

_Fuck you_, Charles texts Seb.

_Congratulations on your win_, Seb texts back.

-

Towards the end of the year, the questions from the media start trickling in, filtered through his family and his closest circle of friends.

_Is he returning next year? What are his plans? Is this really a retirement? Is he completely ruling out a future return? What did he think of the season so far? What is he thinking- _

_It's comical_, he can appreciate that now, now that he's on the other side_, everyone just wants answers and soundbites and Seb doesn't have a single thing to offer them. _

The truth is far more complicated.

Seb doesn't know what he wants and the trouble is that he doesn't hate his life right now.

Certainly doesn't hate it enough to make another foundation-shakingly big decision in the space of twelve months.

So he stays put for the time being.

It's also around then that he receives an unexpected call from his agent.

In open defiance of Seb's instruction not to contact him for an entire year.

He tells her the truth.

That he doesn't know what he wants to do.

His agent suggests that he should probably explore his 'options'.

Seb winces. _That's not what he meant._

He politely tells her that he'll still pay her even if he doesn't return to racing next year.

Even if he doesn't promote whatever ugly luxury watch or artisan gin she's suggesting.

She's not dumb so she reads between the lines and backs off.

She tentatively asks if she can call him in a few months time to see where he's at by then.

_As if he'll have any clearer an idea by then. _

Seb shrugs and then realises that she can't see it.

"Sure, why not," he tells her.

-

Kimi is observing him from the other end of the table.

"I respect your choices but as a friend I have to ask," Kimi swirls the dregs of wine in his glass, "what the fuck are you doing?"

There's a silence.

"I don't know," Seb admits.

Kimi doesn't say anything.

"I think I'm waiting for something," Seb says softly.

"I think I'm waiting for a _sign_," he admits, distracted by the flames flickering and licking at the logs heaped in the fireplace, "I stopped being able to tell if the decisions I was making were right or not," his throat is dry, "I couldn't tell the difference between- I couldn't tell if I was making the right decision or the wrong one anymore."

Kimi is watching him carefully. He still hasn't said anything.

"I couldn't tell the difference anymore and I was just so tired," he blinks, "I thought I couldn't tell the difference _because_ I was so tired... so I thought this was the solution," Seb is staring at the pattern of the wood-grain on the table.

"... And now?" Kimi murmurs.

Seb traces his finger along the swirling lines as he considers his answer.

"I don't think I-" his hand halts, "I don't think I connected the two correctly," he looks up and smiles a little ruefully.

"This doesn't feel wrong, but I can't tell if it's _right_ either, it's not _hurting_ me but it's not," he shrugs self-deprecatingly, "it's not- I don't think it's _right_ either..." he trails off.

Kimi is watching him silently. There's something painfully sympathetic in those icy eyes.

"It's not the same," he finishes lamely. He laughs tiredly, "it's not the same is it?"

"No," Kimi says simply.

And that's that.

He doesn't sleep as easily that night even with a stomach full of food and expensive wine.

-

The questions peter off after a while.

The knots of tension between his shoulder blades slowly melt away and Seb wakes up without an alarm clock most mornings. Calibrating his body clock to the sunlight that peeks through underneath the gaps in his blinds.

He has dinner with Kimi every couple of weeks.

He reads the books he always meant to read and finally gets round to learning some more basic conversational Japanese.

He tries to garden and mostly succeeds.

He tries to cook and mostly gives up halfway.

It's not right but it's not _wrong_ and Seb sometimes wonders if he could stay here, in this deliciously and painlessly unsatisfying grey area, forever.

-

He wakes up one night.

One morning, more accurately.

The bright red, blinking lights of his clock inform him that it is two am.

He wakes up and he's so quietly furious that he can't quite breathe properly.

He throws on the first items of clothing his hands touch and stumbles downstairs. He feels his way around his house in the dark, scrabbling for his keys.

The sky is a velvety indigo outside. So dark it's almost black. 

So dark that it's almost as if there is no sky. 

Seb drives under the sky that is and isn’t there until the pressure in his chest finally dissipates like a fog lifting and his breath stops coming out short and sharp.

He parks his car on the side of the road and gets out. Braces both hands on the side of his car and breathes deeply.

The cold bite of the air is unforgiving and Seb feels worlds away from the safe bubble of home even if he's only twenty minutes down the road in reality.

  
He breathes in and out as he slowly counts backwards from five hundred.

The sky has morphed into a pale shadowy lavender by then.

Seb stands there until the air feels still. _Still_ enough to feel safe.

Until it feels like the world itself has frozen in place.

Like nothing can hurt him anymore.

Like there are no more mistakes left for him to make. 

"What the fuck am I doing?' he asks aloud.

  
The white clouds of his breath waft into the sky.

Like tendrils of smoke leading back to the fire.

Like a call for help.

He receives no answer from the sky.

Seb gathers himself and drives back home when his hands start getting cold and his teeth start chattering.

-

Charles turns up on his doorstep on a Wednesday.

Seb stares at him for a while.

Charles is studiously avoiding his eyes.

He has a small weekend bag sitting next to his feet.

Seb doesn't even know what to say about that and the implications.

"How do you know my address?" he eventually asks.

"I asked Kimi," he answers.

"... And he just _told you?_" Seb makes a mental note to have a word with Kimi about the readiness with which he seems to be passing out Seb's home address.

"I told him I wanted to speak to you."

Seb frowns, "did you want to say _fuck you_ in person?"

Charles doesn't dignify with an answer, he just pushes past Seb and muscles his way into the hallway.

He drops his bag on the rug without even asking first. It lands with a loud thump and Seb eyes it skeptically.

Faintly, Seb realises that he should probably be putting up much more of a fight.

That he, as the legal proprietor of this premise, is very much entitled to.

To put up a fight to _this_, that is.

"I wanted to know-"

"You didn't want to just- I don't know, forget all about me and just enjoy being the number one driver?" Seb asks trailing behind Charles as if _he's_ the interloper.

"I _needed to_\- I wanted to find out why the fuck you disappeared," Charles says across his shoulder.

"You-"

"I don't know why you're doing this," Charles says incredulously, "no one fucking knows why you're doing this."

His eyes are bright but they're darting agitatedly around the hallway, brushing over the framed photos hanging in the hallway, the old woolen socks that Seb is padding behind him in, the bicycle leaned against the cupboard under the stairs.

Trying to find evidence justifying the ludicrous decision.

  
As if there’s going to be some huge canvas or tapestry hanging in the living room that declares in ink or thread, _I fucking gave up,_ or, _hey, I just got **old!**,_ or whatever it is that Charles seems to suspect.   
  


Seb doesn't know if Charles would respond well if Seb told him that he's also trying to figure it out himself.

Doesn't know if he'd even _believe_ Seb.

"There are three guest bedrooms," Seb says instead, he gently places his steaming mug of tea on the table next to the little porcelain dish with his keys in it, "would you like to choose one of them to put your bags into instead of my hallway?" he asks.

-

Charles informs Seb that he doesn't like his eggs sunny side up the next morning.

The pan hangs limply in Seb's hand. He shrugs as if to say, _what do you want me to do about it?_

Charles just huffs and wanders over, he opens a few cupboards until he finds a small pan with a black handle.

"Fill this halfway with water," he instructs.

Seb arches a brow but complies. He returns the pot to Charles as per his instructions.

Charles switches on the stove and says, "I'm going to teach you how to poach eggs."

-

They don't discuss it.

Charles doesn't inform him in advance but every couple of weeks he'll turn up on Seb's doorstep and Seb will open the door and show him to one of the guest bedrooms.

Charles never says how long he'll stay.

Seb never asks.

He never plans activities like he would when his friends or family visit. Doesn't make reservations at restaurants or offer to drive him to the airport.

He occasionally invites Charles to join him on a hike or ask for his help in the garden.

Charles normally agrees pretty readily to the former. Seb has a sneaking suspicion that sometimes Charles is waiting for Seb to tell him what the plan is for the day.

That said, Charles often wrinkles his nose at the latter option. He nonetheless slides off of the couch or barstool and ambles outside to help Seb fix a hole in the fence around the veggie patch.

It's not... awful.

It's almost like having a very flighty roommate who never washes his dishes and only understands a small handful of Seb's dated pop culture references.

-

They don't talk about racing.

Charles doesn't ask him why he's doing this again. 

Why he's holed up in a large house in Switzerland instead of-

Instead of where he's probably meant to be. 

-

Shockingly enough, they still find things to talk about.

-

Sometimes the Charles Seb finds on his doorstep when he opens his door is an angry one.

Normally he's calmly bored. Staring off into the distance in a flawless impersonation of laidback nonchalance.

  
Seb wonders who he’s performing for. If it’s for Seb’s benefit it’s probably a little misguided but he’s flattered nonetheless.

  
  
But sometimes, _very rarely_, Charles is **angry**.

Thrumming with a lethally silent rage.

Seb is all too familiar with _that_ Charles. He knows how to tiptoe around the fault lines.

Which warning signs to heed and which are just smoke and mirrors.

So, sometimes Charles turns up all but seething on Seb's doorstep and-

And Seb doesn't ask _why_, just invites Charles in and asks if he's hungry for whatever leftovers he's carefully packed in Tupperware containers in the fridge.

Charles pretends to gag at the thought and Seb remarks that he could always cook for Seb or bring food with him for a change and Charles rolls his eyes and-

And just like that, it's... not _okay_. Not quite.

But, closer to _okay._

Yeah.

That.

-

The next time Charles visits he brings a bottle of expensive red merlot that Seb knows someone else picked out and a large box of _sushi_.

Seb graciously accepts the proffered gifts even as he mentally tries to recall if you should even contemplate drinking red wine with sushi.

Seb frowns as he tries to translate the French script on the label of the bottle as Charles leaves his bags in the middle of the hallway like a _child_ and proceeds to collapse onto Seb's couch with a sigh.

Seb scratches the back of his neck. He normally selects wine based almost solely on the unsophisticated indicator of _price_ so the flowery descriptions of notes and tannins are... new.

".. Thanks?"

"You're welcome," Charles calls out from where he's sprawled on the couch, he turns on the television and starts flicking through the channels until he finds a sports channel playing a football match, "is there more of that quinoa salad you made a while ago?"

Seb rolls his eyes, "no I don't still have leftovers from a salad I made over two weeks ago," he deadpans, he opens the fridge. Charles just hums under his breath as he turns the subtitles off of the television like he does _every time he comes._

Seb scans the kitchen bench, "I've got some leftover zucchini bread," he says.

"From the zucchini's we planted ages ago?" Charles asks absentmindedly.

"Yeah," Seb replies as he finds some plates for the haphazard components of dinner.

_Yeah_, he recalls, _Charles was there when they planted the zucchini. _

_Not that Charles helped much with the planting though,_ he wants to remark.

He just stood to the side in his designer sneakers and maintained a steady stream of unhelpful commentary.

Charles calls out that Seb should decant the wine to let it _breathe._

Seb just ignores him. He didn't even know if he had a _vase,_ he doesn't own a fucking wine decanter.

When he flips open the box of sushi Seb smiles, there are two or three pieces of every variety carefully arranged in little sections.

He sticks one of the salmon nigiri in his mouth.

The salmon almost melts in his mouth.

-

Charles stares at him all through the next day.

It would be a little unnerving save for the fact that Seb finds almost everything Charles does at least a little bit unnerving.

Charles does help him flatten some cardboard boxes to fit into the recycling bin. He almost trips when his shoelace is caught between two collapsed boxes.

Without even thinking, Seb thrusts a hand out to grab him by the arm and steady him.

Charles looks at his hand squeezing firmly around his forearm. 

Seb’s knuckles are white.

They stand like that for a little while.

"Thanks," Charles murmurs.

"You're welcome." 

-

That night Seb is reading in bed. When he looks up Charles is stood in the doorway.

Just watching him.

Wordlessly he walks over. Bare feet padding on the floorboards.

Seb watches him and doesn't say anything.

Charles crawls into his bed. Reaches over to take Seb's paperback out of his hands, closes it and places it carefully on the bedside table.

Seb decides it's probably easier just to go along with whatever Charles is doing.

He watches on silently as Charles lies down next to him. As he shifts to stare at the white ceiling. 

Seb lies back and stares at the ceiling too. 

“How do you do it? How do you walk away?” Charles asks quietly.

“I don’t know, I just did,” Seb admits.

He turns his head. Looks at Charles properly, “I think I might regret it though,” he adds, “maybe,” he shrugs, the covers rustle and bunch around his shoulder, “_probably_.”

Charles stares at him with an unreadable expression.

Then he kisses him.

Seb kisses him back and feels something kicking in his chest.

-

“Was it just _hating_ it and _loving_ it until one won out?” Charles whispers against Seb’s collarbone later.

Seb doesn’t understand why Charles is so stuck on this one thing.

“Why does it matter?” Seb asks tiredly, “why do you even care.”

That shuts Charles up.

They lie there in the dark and it's not comfortable but it's not _uncomfortable_ and Seb thinks he's starting to realise that this might be the problem.

The thought is an unwelcome one.

“Why did you text me,” Seb asks suddenly, “you know, the _fuck you," _he smiles a little at the memory.

“Why does it matter?” Charles petulantly throws back at him as he sits up, “why do you even care.”

Seb shrugs again, the crisp cotton of his sheets are pooled around his legs and the night air is cool against his heated skin, “I just don’t think I would have done that if, you know, if the roles were reversed.”

He can feel Charles eyes on him, “yeah, well, I wouldn’t walk away from racing for no good reason.”

It rips a tired laugh from Seb’s chest, “touché.”

-

"My parents are coming to visit in a few days," Seb says.

He doesn't really know how to turn that into a question. 

He doesn't really know how to ask, _well, what am I going to tell them is going on?_

Partly because he himself hasn't the faintest idea.

"Ok," Charles says slowly.

His phone is charging in the port on the kitchen bench next to Seb's.

No part of this _makes sense._ Seb would probably be concerned if he wasn’t so _confused_.

"Okay," Charles repeats calmly and they don't bring it up again for the entire day. 

He's gone by the next morning, leaving a single coffee mug and unwashed plate in the sink.

-

Charles doesn't visit again for two months.

Seb goes back to washing one mug in the morning and frying his eggs sunny side up.

-

When he does eventually turn up Seb doesn't say anything about his absence.

Doesn't ask why he's gripping the strap of his weekend bag with white knuckles.

Seb caved and set up live notifications for race weekends on his phone.

He knows why Charles is here. 

-

That night Seb brushes his teeth, changes into his pyjamas and gets into bed. He reads a few pages of his book.

He waits for Charles to come to him.

Then he deliberates going to him. Charles' bedroom is only down the hall.

In the end he doesn't-

He just _doesn't._

-

The next morning Seb feels drowsy and there are bags under his eyes. He blearily fires up the coffee machine for Charles and puts the kettle on for his tea.

By the time Charles wanders downstairs Seb is rifling through his cupboards.

Charles' hair is a mess and he looks droopier than usual too. He murmurs a, "good-morning," which Seb returns. 

Seb fills a pot halfway with water and hands it to Charles. There’s a carton of eggs next to the stove.

Charles stares at the pot for a few moments.

Then he takes it out of Seb's hands and twists around to place it on the kitchen bench instead of the stove.

  
Seb blinks.

Charles drags Seb down for a mouth bruising kiss.

Seb kisses back and pushes him back until the edge of the bench digs into Charles’ lower back.

The pot clatters onto the floor, cold water spilling across the tiles and getting their feet wet.

They ignore it. 

Something loosens in Seb's chest.

-

"Are you ever going to race again?" Charles asks casually one night.

The wine that was lingering pleasantly in Seb's mouth sours.

"I don't want to talk about that," he says carefully.

Charles narrows his eyes at that, "... Do you even _know?"_

"... No," Seb says evenly, hands gripping his knees tightly under the table, "I have-"

"-_Yeah_, you keep _saying_, you** don't know**," Charles cuts him off with a sharp look.

Seb can feel it. How the easy calm of the evening, of _all of this_, is hanging on tenterhooks.

Seb can see it. How Charles is prepared to shatter it completely in order to extract a straight answer.

It only takes a few more choice barbs before they're really shouting at each other.

Finally saying the things they've been thinking and politely keeping to themselves over the last couple of months. 

The last couple of months and this mutually beneficial dance of denial. 

Of escape.

"You _really_ don't know what the fuck you're doing here," Charles accuses with a shrill laugh. "You got _scared_," he sneers, "you got scared of _fighting_. You finally realised that if you're not winning you're _losing_."

Seb bristles.

"You ran away."

Bristles at the truth in the accusation.

"Fuck you," Seb spits.

"Am I wrong, Seb? Am I _wrong_?" Charles' eyes are wild.

"_Fuck you_, it's not that simple, Charles."

Charles ignores him, keeps barrelling on, "you didn't lose anything but your _nerve_, you're hiding, you're _scared_-"

"-And you're scared of your _potential_," Seb finally snaps, "you want to do this? _Then let's fucking do this,_" his smile is mean, meaner than it has been in a long time.

  
Meaner than it’s needed to be in a long time.

His hands are shaking again but he hasn't noticed.

Charles' eyes are wide.

_Good_, Seb thinks to himself.

Maybe Charles got a little too comfortable thinking Seb was _harmless_.

_Maybe,_ a little voice in the back of his mind suggests, _**you** got a little too comfortable thinking that too. _

But Charles' eyes are no longer wide. His eyes darken dangerously and Seb strikes before Charles can. 

To disavow him of the notion that Seb ever was and ever will be _harmless._

Seb ensures Charles never makes that same mistake again.

"Why else would you still be here?" Seb asks, voice dripping with sarcasm, "why else would you still be turning up on my doorstep to lick your wounds and pretend the outside world doesn't exist."

Charles' glare is poison.

There's wine spilled across the dining table.

The blood in Seb's veins fucking _sings._

Charles' bares his teeth a little and Seb meets the gaze.

He feels alive for the first time in a long time.

-

A very long time.

-

They fuck right there in the dining room.

With red wine spilled on the table and later staining the back of Charles' ugly designer t-shirt.

-

Charles doesn't visit him again.

-

Seb can't say he's too surprised.

-

What _does_ surprise him is that he grows restless.

That Charles has somehow whetted Seb's appetite for battle.

For _blood_ as well as expensive red merlot.

-

Credit where credit is due.

_You were right_, he texts Charles.

_Fuck you,_ comes the almost immediate response.

Seb smiles a little.

At how _full-circle _it all feels. 

The blood sings in his veins.

Hasn't stopped humming and buzzing and setting his fucking soul alight for the past few weeks. 

_I already did that,_ he texts back without missing a beat.

-

Sebastian picks up the phone.

Holds it in his hand for a few minutes before dialing a number he hasn't had cause to use in a while.

"You told me to call you _when, _to call you and say _when-_" he stares at the way the sunlight glints off of the dishes arranged neatly in the drying rack but all he sees is a pool of wine on his dining table, "I'm saying _when_."

The voice on the other end of the line chirps excitedly.

-

He wears a nice suit to the meeting.

The terms are pretty simple.

All said, the negotiations don't take as long as he thought they would.

The expressions of the people on the other side of the conference room table are curious more than anything.

Seb makes sure his mild smile doesn’t give anything away.

He’s ready to play the game.

-

Seb is slicing the sweet potato to go with his salmon when his phone emanates a single ominous buzz.

A few seconds later it sounds with another little buzz.

Then it unleashes a stream of frantic buzzing until Seb has no choice but to wash his hands and turn it off.

He returns to his dinner preparations and squeezes the lemon over the salmon fillet. 

As a finishing touch, he adorns it with a sprig of rosemary. 

When he had switched his phone off he already had thirty-six missed-calls. 

_The official announcement has been released then_, he surmises as he examines his handiwork.

-

Charles is watching him like a coiled snake across the garage. There's a tiny little broken-glass smirk lurking in the corner of his pink mouth.

Seb lowers the helmet over his head and thinks about _right_ and _wrong,_ about _safe_ and _unsafe,_ _good_ and _bad, _and the sliver of grey area in between.

The grey area where he currently finds himself.

This grey area where he has to decide.

This grey area where he has the power to choose. 

This grey area where he'll sometimes make the wrong decision.

Charles is still staring at him with steel and flint in his eyes like some sort of tangible proof of the _greyness_ of all of it. 

Seb thinks about the tantalising way his blood sang a hypnotic aria of mutual destruction and absolution the last time they were in the same room.

In between all that, he sees the weaving trail of dirt snaking down his hallway from the garden, the feeling of waking up with the sunlight on the back of his eyelids, and the expression on Charles' face just before he kissed Seb.

He uses them like sensory jigsaw pieces, as evidence, of the kinds of decisions he thinks were more _right_ than they were wrong.

Charles is staring at him from across the garage and Seb doesn't know what they'll _have_ but he's finally content just to see how it plays out.

How _all of it_ plays out.

**Author's Note:**

> After some deliberation (and a reread) I think this was really about avoidance and confrontation of yourself. Internally. Avoiding and confronting the things you don't like about yourself. The difficult things that you want to change but can't change overnight. 
> 
> Knowing the difference between what you need and what you think you want because you don't want to confront what you need. 
> 
> Idk. Given much of this was reverse-engineered I can't vouch much for the quality and narrative coherence.
> 
> I hope it's not truly and irredeemably terrible

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [postcards from places that miss you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334690) by [streetlightsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/streetlightsky/pseuds/streetlightsky)


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